


Spark

by TwinEnigma



Category: Batman (Comics), Doctor Who (2005), Under the Red Hood
Genre: Batfamily (DCU) Feels, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Regeneration (Doctor Who), Regeneration Sickness (Doctor Who), Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-08-15
Updated: 2011-08-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:47:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22302070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwinEnigma/pseuds/TwinEnigma
Summary: It's not the first time Jason Todd has died. Fortunately, he can fix that. A new development changes things.
Kudos: 21





	1. I - Alleyway

It's not the first time Jason Todd has died, not by far, but it's the first time he's really going to be conscious for it.

It hurts and it's terrifying, because this time there's no enraged alien meta to punch him out of death's grasp and this time he knows there's no Lazarus Pit nearby, much less someone who would care enough and be willing to toss him into it. It's not just an illusion of death, where he can swing to safety at the last minute, or there's another escape route that the good guys can't see.

This time is _for real_.

He grimaces, pulling himself along the alleyway, and tries to ignore the blood gushing from his side and leg. His vision spins dangerously, like a tilt-a-whirl on acid, and his ears are ringing with a tinny, distant almost-song that's growing steadily louder. His foot drags and he stumbles, catching himself on the wall with his free hand.

The song is louder now, almost familiar, but distantly so, as if he'd heard it a lifetime ago, and tiredly, he slumps against the brick. He can feel his skin starting to tingle from the blood loss and his mask is suddenly suffocating. He tears it off and flings it away, watching it bounce across the alley and come to rest.

The song dances in his ears until his head throbs with it, the world dancing dizzyingly, and he closes his eyes.

"I'm dying," he says to no one in particular.

A tiny voice in the back of his mind, one that sounds suspiciously like his own, murmurs, "You can fix that."

"I can… fix that?" Jason wonders aloud.

The voice adds, "It's easy, really."

The tingling sensation has spread everywhere, growing in intensity until it feels like burning, and the song hums through him soothingly. _Open your eyes,_ it seems to say and he indulges it, watching in detached fascination as golden light dances over and through his skin in whispery trails.

"I'm hallucinating," he concludes.

And it is a pretty one as far as hallucinations go. He is glowing with warm gold light that leaves pretty contrails as he moves his hand and it's only getting stronger, pulsing in waves like a fire out of control.

Then he feels it – the broken ribs mending, his leg knitting, the bullet wounds closing – all at once, in a painful cacophony and the song rises to deafening levels as something _burning_ explodes from under his skin. He screams, blinded by golden light, and then… there is only silence.

He drops to the ground, staring at his hands in confusion. There is blood on his clothes and they're shredded (with bullet holes, his brain supplies), but he is uninjured. He's starving and he doesn't know what he likes, but he's hungry enough not to care. He's not even completely sure what his name is (Jason, Robin, Red Hood, Jason sounds good) or what he looks like (blond, redhead, black hair, yeah, black is right, feels right).

He starts for the street, his legs still shaking from _something_ but they are getting steadier with every step. Nearby, a red mask lies on the ground. It is familiar somehow and he picks it up curiously before stuffing it under his arm.

In his head, the song of the universe flows.


	2. II - Body Dump

Jason wakes up with a start. There's a dull pain in the back of his head and he's disturbingly hyperaware of the cold water lapping at his waist. He can make out the sound of harbor buoys in the distance and it takes a moment before he realizes he knows where he is: Gotham's harbor district, somewhere on the edge of the old pier. Dimly, he recalls that the old pier's docks are too unstable, rotting wood and crumbling concrete structures from a bygone era that have been left to decay, and that it's often used as a body dump site.

And it looks like he was just dumped.

Jason can't help the raspy laugh that seems to force its way up his throat and reaches up, running a shaking hand down his face.

Bits and pieces of what happened are starting to come back to him in a jagged cinema of flashes, choppy dialogue and violence. He fixes on the smiling face of the mob lieutenant pulling the strings and memorizes it. There _will_ be hell to pay.

"Idiots," he murmurs, "Can't even tell when a guy is dead."

And really, that's the first rule of putting out a hit on someone – _make sure they're dead._ Always, always double-tap, and weigh down or destroy the body when you're done, because in this world, death doesn't always stick. Sometimes, death spits you back out, kicking and screaming and ready for payback.

He should know. He's the poster child, after all.

Jason shivers. He needs to get out of the water and soon. Rolling over, he hauls himself out of the water and onto the rocks. It's harder than it should be – his hands and arms are shaking, there's a growing knot in his stomach like he needs to vomit, and the rocks are slick with slime – but he's never let something like that stop him. He climbs, feet scrabbling for hold, and finally succeeds in crawling on his hands and knees onto what looks like the top of one of the old sandbars. His arms feel like jelly and he pants, gasping for air as he leans back to sit on his legs.

"Could be shock," a part of his brain murmurs.

The knot in his stomach is painful, pushing on his throat, and the urge to vomit wins, but all that comes out are small sheets of gold, wafting sparks. He stares at them as they disappear in confusion and vague recognition. He thinks, perhaps, that he has seen this somewhere before, but he's feeling much better now and his mind is already turning towards other, more important things, like reestablishing his dominance and teaching that upstart mobster a lesson.

Jason gets to his feet slowly and starts walking towards his nearest safe house, humming a tune he's sure he heard long ago, somewhere. He knows he's not doing the pretty tune any justice, but those early memories are still fractured and broken in places and not even the Lazarus Pit had been able to fully restore them, so it's a miracle he even recalls it at all.

When he gets to the safe house, he changes and puts on one of his older domino masks. A fuzzy memory in the back of his head whispers that the mobster took his full-face mask and intends to take over the Red Hood identity. Jason grimaces as he grabs his best hardware. He knows it's not a bad move, tactically, on the man's part – Red Hood has a reputation, a damn vicious one, and it's a hell of a lot more street cred than that kiss-ass Judas currently totes. But the identity is _his_ and Jason sure as hell isn't going to let some punk wannabe cash in on the cred he earned.

He waits until nightfall before he stalks back to the warehouses he _knows_ he'll find his target in at this time of night. There's a shipment coming in from Africa tonight – small arms, mostly – and the mob is due to collect. The shadows embrace him like an old lover and he slips through, as graceful and silent as only one who flew under the Bat can be, until he's right above the office where his prey sits in smug, self-satisfied ignorance.

Subtlety is hardly what Jason has in mind when he shoots the two guards and drops through the skylight. It's the furthest thing from his mind when he lands on the desk, disarms the pretender, and rams his knife through the man's hand, pinning it to the desk.

"You!" the mobster howls in naked fear. _"You were dead!"_

"I've been dead before," Jason says, reaching forward and yanking off the stolen mask. He smiles, adding, "But it's never stuck very long."

"But… but… no, you were _dead,"_ the mobster moans, clutching at his hand and trying to free it.

Jason steps on his fingers, breaking them, and relishes in the agonized shriek it elicits from his prey. There's shouting from below, the sound of running, and he aims his assault rifle at the door. A quick burst silences them.

The mobster sobs breathlessly and repeats quietly that no one could have survived that sort of beating, over and over like a broken record.

A glimpse of blood, his own broken hands and shattered limbs as blows rain down on him, and realizing his lung was punctured _again_ by the familiar wet-rasping breaths he took, flickers across his mind.

No, he thinks. That didn't happen. It couldn't have. If he'd been that badly off, only a Lazarus Pit could have helped him and, last he checked, the water in Gotham Harbor was more likely to give him a skin rash than heal him. And then there were those strange gold sparks he'd tried to puke up – those didn't seem native to Gotham Harbor either.

"I don't get it," the mobster whimpers, curling in on himself. "How can you be alive?"

"Death doesn't want me," Jason hisses, and places his gun against the man's forehead. "And Hell's afraid I'll take over."

He squeezes the trigger and leaves his message scrawled in blood and brain matter.

He hardly notices the gold light wafting from his lips again.


	3. III - Back to the Nest

"He's dead."

Batman silently stares at Robin, watching as the young boy gets back to his feet and steps away from the body of the Red Hood, his estranged and broken son. His eyes flick to the body and then away, the guilt and old familiar horror clawing at his soul. No parent should go through this once, let alone a second time.

 _"Jason, I have failed you again,"_ he thinks.

Robin shuffles closer and looks at him with an inscrutable expression. "Batman," he says, but Batman hears _father_ in the tone. "The police will be here soon. What do you want to do?"

The boy pauses and inclines his head in the direction of the body.

Batman closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and stares at Robin. "We're taking him home."

Robin nods silently and signals the car.

Moving forward aches and each step thunders with leaden weight, but Batman manages to cross the short distance to Jason's body and stoops. He traces the red helmet with a hand and feels around for the release button.

"It might not be him," Robin says from behind him. "It could be a decoy."

Batman can hear the awkward hesitation in Robin's voice and he knows what his youngest son, Damian, is trying to do. It almost makes him smile, in spite of everything, for what it means about the boy's progress. But then his fingers find the button and he's instantly brought back to the lifeless form of his second oldest son lying before him in the underbelly of Gotham. The helmet releases with a hiss and he lifts it away.

"See? It doesn't look a thing like him," Robin says, rubbing his nose as he tries to hide a sniffle. "His hair's not even the right color."

"It's him," Batman corrects him softly, and runs his fingers through the blond locks. "He… dyed it sometimes. I wouldn't rule out facial reconstruction either."

"Tt," Robin responds, picking up the discarded helmet. He knows, more than any of them, how their particular trade could result in the need for massive surgery. The scars on his back are jarring and, even now, Batman cannot look at them without feeling that in some part he's failed his youngest.

"We'll run DNA to be sure," Batman adds.

Robin turns away with a curt nod and starts walking towards the stairs.

Batman carefully gathers Jason's body in his arms, repositioning him into a fireman's carry, and follows him upstairs and outside in silence. He doesn't look down because if he does, he won't be able to keep going. Instead, he keeps his eyes fixed on his youngest son's back and tries not to think about how much this new Robin is like the one he holds in his arms or how much heavier the body is this time and it's not just because Jason is, no, _was_ a grown man now.

As twisted with fury and revenge as Jason had become in those first years back, there was always the knowledge that he had his son _back_ and all this time it's allowed Batman to hope for a reconciliation _._ But it's not going to be like that this time. There's not going to be a second chance, or third as it were, and now they will never have the opportunity to reconcile.

Batman gently lowers Jason's body into the car and makes sure it's secure before signaling Robin to get in. The boy doesn't need much encouragement, hopping into the seat like he was made for it. Batman gets in, closes the door, and glances at Robin.

"You okay, son?" he asks.

The young boy nods absently, his hands cradling the Red Hood helmet. "I'm fine. I'm _not_ upset. I mean, it's not like I really knew him anyway."

It's disturbing how much Robin reminds him of himself sometimes.

He watches the boy for a moment longer and turns away. There's no delaying it any longer. Batman takes one look back at Jason's body and then keys the mic. "Alfred, we're coming home. Meet us with a gurney."

_"Oh my. I suppose I'd better get the trauma kit."_

"Don't bother, Alfred," Batman says, the words like ash on his tongue, "It's too late."

He can hear a clattering over the line and there's a sudden eerie silence before the soft horrified whisper hisses out of the speakers: _"Young Master?"_

"Tt, I'm _fine_ , old man," Robin replies, a little too-quickly, and it doesn't escape his notice how his son tries to disguise the tears stinging his eyes by rubbing away imaginary dust.

_"And in top form, no doubt, young Master. And yourself, Master Bruce?"_

"It's not for me," Batman answers and throws the car into gear. The accelerator is feather-light under his foot and for a moment, the car almost seems to fly as it surges forward. Somewhere in time, Jason sits next to him and tells him it's the best day of his life, and then he finds himself in the present again.

_"Then…"_

"Jason," Batman says and grips the steering wheel harder. "It's Jason."

_"I… understand, sir. I will be waiting."_

The radio goes quiet and all that's left is deafening silence as they race through the city, back towards home. The only sounds are the growl of the engine and the occasional sniffle from Robin and there's this insane part of him that wishes Jason would sit up, laugh, and say this is all a bad joke. In the end, it remains deathly quiet and he can't help but feel relieved when they finally pull into the cave.

Alfred, pale and suddenly seeming so much older, is waiting for them with a gurney.

Removing Jason from the car takes the three of them. Rigor has not yet set in and it makes the task more difficult, but they manage to get him on the gurney. Jason looks almost like he's sleeping, but the illusion is ruined by the absence of breathing and the discoloration that suggests poisoning.

"He's changed his face again, I see," Alfred murmurs.

"A disguise, no doubt," Batman responds. He pulls off his cowl, letting himself slip into Bruce, and pulls the gurney over to the medical bay. His hands shake as he grabs the needle and draws enough blood for a DNA test. The sample preparation is simpler, almost automatic.

Damian watches silently, his Robin mask absent. Jason's helmet sits in his lap, his still-gloved hands unable or unwilling to let it go.

"It won't take long," Bruce says, loading the sample into the analyzer and pulling up the comparison program. "Jason's DNA is already on file."

He already knows what it will say and so does Alfred. They've been here before, after all, and the ache is no less painful. He just wishes and wants with every fiber of his being for it be this one time that he's _wrong._

The most powerful computer in the world _hums_ as the status bar on the screen starts to fill. He and Alfred watch it in mute fascination.

"Father," Damian's voice pipes up behind them. "Look at this!"

Bruce can't tear his eyes away from the screen: "In a minute."

"But…" Damian starts.

"Just a minute," Bruce says and squints as a strange, vaguely familiar yellowish glare catches on the corner of the screen. It is steadily growing in intensity.

" _No,_ father, I think you need to see this _right now_ ," Damian says, more insistently, and Bruce can feel him tugging at his cape. In fact, were it any other boy, Bruce might think he's scared.

Alfred turns first and it's his gasp of surprise that makes Bruce turn.

Jason's body is glowing. Sheets and waves of golden light are trailing from his hands and face, growing steadily brighter. All of a sudden, his body jerks spasmodically, his spine arcing and he draws in a deep breath as the light grows brighter still. The light is now practically exploding from his body in waves.

And then Jason begins to scream.

It's the worst sound Bruce has ever heard, something he is sure will haunt his nightmares for years to come. He pulls Damian closer with one hand, nearly pressing the boy behind him, and squints, raising a hand to shield his eyes.

The light suddenly winks out and Jason collapses back onto the gurney, exhausted and panting. His hair is shorter, black this time, and his face is similar to Bruce's own, only much younger. He knows the eyes will be blue even before Jason opens them.

Bruce approaches the gurney slowly, noting how the blue eyes watch him in disoriented wariness. Behind him, the computer pings and Damian gasps in confusion. Alfred quickly shushes him, putting a steadying hand on his shoulder.

"Jason," Bruce says, stopping before the gurney. He spreads his arms wide and smiles: "Welcome home, son."

_Match confirmed – 100%._


	4. IV - Playback

Jason isn't aware of where he is at first. His brain feels like it's stuffed with cotton and every muscle in his body feels like jelly. It takes some considerable effort just to open his eyes and when he does, he immediately recognizes the Batcave. There is something about the place that's been engraved into his very being, an almost instinctive association with safety and home. The crazy thing is that he can't remember _how_ he got there.

A familiar man in the all-too-familiar grey and black Batsuit enters his vision.

 _Batman, of course_ , he thinks as he watches the Bat's lips curl into a smile he knows somehow is rarer than any diamond and the Bat's hands spread in a welcoming gesture. He is saying something, but Jason can't quite make it out. His head is still so muddled and thinking makes it throb with an almost rhythmic pulse. It nauseates him and he closes his eyes for a moment.

The Batman's smile slips, his hands lowering, and he looks at him in concern.

"Jason, can you hear me? Do you know who I am?"

This time, he can hear the words clearly. He knows that voice, but the memory is slow in coming and his voice creaks with obvious weakness as he finally rasps out, "Bruce."

"You had another one of your _episodes_ ," Bruce tells him gently. The emphasis of the word is strange, speaks of secrets, and something Jason thinks he should remember.

"What episodes?" Jason manages.

Bruce's face grows even more worried and he looks over his shoulder – Alfred must be nearby – before turning back. "Jason, how much do you remember?"

It's confusing, this concern, and he doesn't know what to make of it. His memories are a jumbled mess of worlds, prison, murders and anger; there is so much seething righteous fury buried in them that he shudders on instinct and wonders if it's for the best that he can't recall everything perfectly.

"Can you sit up?" Bruce asks.

"Everything hurts," Jason mumbles. "M' teeth feel weird. And I'm hungry."

Bruce nods as if he'd expected that. "You usually are after an episode."

That word again. Jason frowns, blinking as Bruce helps him to a sitting position. "What happened to me?"

Now that he's sitting up, he can see Alfred and a strangely quiet Damian. The boy watches him with a wary interest, as if he's never seen Jason before or has just arrived at some profound and previously unrealized conclusion.

"You don't remember, do you?" Bruce says aloud, but it's more confirmation than question and he's clearly not expecting an answer. He then sighs and looks over his shoulder, focusing on Damian for a moment before looking at Alfred. "Alfred, I think we could use a late supper."

"Certainly, Master Wayne," Alfred responds. "Come along, Young Master. I believe I could use a capable pair of hands."

Damian turns his head, clearly looking for a countering command, but Bruce shakes his head solemnly, as if to say _not now_ , and the boy shrinks back a little, obediently turning to follow Alfred out of the cave.

Jason waits until they're gone before speaking and when he does, he's surprised a little by how bitter the words sound. "You don't trust him with this, do you?"

Bruce is silent a moment, his expression a careful blank as he approaches the computer. "No, I don't trust his _mother._ "

Jason's head throbs and he thinks he gets a flash of something, a broken memory of an almost-familiar woman talking to her father, calling Jason a mystery, a miracle. There jumbled up bits of other memories intruding, overlaying, and then the fog in his mind starts to clear a little. He recalls their names, _knows_ that the woman is Talia, Damian's mother, and her father is the immortal Ra's, and that the latter had tried to have him killed after... something that Talia had done to him, _for_ him. He remembers that she is dangerous, manipulative, and capable of anything, even using her own flesh and blood in her bizarre game to get to Bruce.

Whatever Bruce knows, he's afraid of what Talia could do with it if she were to pry it from her son.

"So, are you going to tell me what happened or am I going to have to guess?" Jason says at last. It's getting much easier to think now, the memories clearer.

Bruce is quiet a moment, his hand resting on the keyboard. "Perhaps it is best if I just show you."

The holographic display flickers to life and Jason can very clearly see the gurney he's currently sitting on. There's a blond man lying on it and, oddly, he's wearing the same clothes as Jason is, but he isn't moving. In fact, he doesn't even look like he's breathing. Before he can even ask who the man is, waves of light start to pour off of the man's body. Damian's surprise on the recording is almost comical to see, but Jason can't take his eyes off the golden light as his memories start to come loose in great big disjointed chunks.

_Bullets_

_shot_

_too much blood_

_mommy don't cry_

_what's happening_

_I'm okay Batman see_

_I've had worse you bastards_

_the artery_

_not going to make it_

_dammit_

_who are you_

_not again_

_can't breathe_

_my lung_

_what's that song_

_so familiar_

_need to get home, back to base_

_I refuse to die here_

_won't be killed by these scumbags_

_I can fix it_

_I can fix it mommy_

_it's easy really watch_

"That's not me. It can't be me," Jason starts, shaking his head. "Shut it off."

On the video, the glowing body suddenly spasms in full tonic seizure and an unholy, blood-curling scream rips from his mouth as the face and bones begin to shift.

"Shut it off!" Jason shouts, covering his ears. He can still hear the screaming, that haunting song and the raw pulsing echoes of memory. " _Shut it_ _off!"_

There's a click and the holographic display winks out.

"You remembered something just now, didn't you?" Bruce asks. His cape swirls soundlessly as he moves closer and Jason's entire body instinctively freezes when Bruce's gloved hands grip his shoulders. "Jason, I want to help you, but you need to trust me."

He's a kid again, awkward in this strange grown-up body, and the frighteningly strong compulsion to latch on to the only _real_ father he'd ever known chokes him in its fervor. Only the still-foggy memory of that horrid newspaper where he'd learned that he _truly_ was not avenged keeps him from acting on the impulse, though the thought of it sickens him and he gags. Gold smoke and sparks waft from his lips like a cloud, brought up with the revulsion, and in their wake comes the fractured memory of vomiting up the same gold light at the docks.

It's real. It had never been a hallucination.

Jason sags forward, suddenly feeling more exhausted than he can remember being in ages. "What the hell is happening to me?"

Bruce shakes his head. He either doesn't know, or doesn't want to say. The latter is most likely. Jason's never known Bruce to not have a theory.

Jason's stomach chooses that moment to rumble and Bruce smiles. It makes him look older, more tired, and it takes a moment for Jason to remember that Bruce isn't really that old.

"Come on then, let's take care of that stomach of yours."

It's like traveling through time, back to those days _before_ , and the whole universe is suddenly ten shades of right. Jason _is_ a kid again, walking a half step behind Bruce after patrol, and he is home, where he belongs.

He isn't even aware he's crying until he rubs his eyes at the manor lights and his fingers come away wet.


	5. V - Dream

Jason dreams.

He's standing in a hexagonal corridor. He doesn't know how old he is, and he's wearing a Robin uniform that isn't like the ones he remembers, but it's okay because he knows it's his, always been his. Someone, somewhere in the distance, is singing and he thinks, maybe, he knows this song, heard it somewhere before. The melody is hauntingly beautiful and reminds him of starlight and the dust of centuries past. His feet move on autopilot, ghosting silently across the smooth floor as he begins to walk towards the sound of singing.

At the end of the corridor, there's a door. He leans against it, listens to the song behind the door, and then reaches for the doorknob. Gold light spills through the crack, filling the hallway as he opens the door wider and wider.

His stepmother, Catherine, is there and he is home, back before the drugs killed her, before his dad disappeared. She is smiling and radiant, all sunshine and soda pop cheer, and someone is singing that song, but it's not her.

"Jason," she says, picking him up, and smiling as his tiny-so-tiny child's fingers are swallowed by her own.

He is laughing, giggling, but the face reflected in her eyes isn't his. It's a small boy with strawberry blond hair and cheeks chubby with baby fat. It is not him, but it laughs when he laughs and frowns when he does.

The song turns strange, ominous, and suddenly he is falling, falling forever, as the song and the beat of his heart grows louder and louder.

A bullet rips through his armor and he curses, returning fire. A second one tears through his leg and two more join the first in his torso. He staggers, dropping into the shadows, and limps away, hoping to reach safety, but he's losing too much blood.

He is laughing and it hurts. His ribs are broken, the lungs sucking wetly with blood, and they're still beating the hell out of him, but he doesn't care. After all, he's been here before and it only made him stronger, angrier, **purer**. This is no different.

His head hurts. Mommy is looking down at him. Her face is white with terror.

"Jason, listen to me," a man, blurry and indistinct, says. "You're dying. You can fix that. It's easy, really."

The gold light is everywhere, growing, spilling out of his hands – a man's hands, a child's hands, a teen's hands, all at once and neither.

Just before he hits the ground, he wakes.

For a moment, he's completely disoriented and then, slowly, awareness filters in. This is Wayne Manor and he's on one of the couches in the lounge, a blanket half-twisted around his legs and the low hiss and crackle of a dimming fire in the hearth nearby. He distinctly recalls stuffing his face with half a dozen cookies and several sandwiches while Damian stared at him in disgusted awe, still on his first one, and Bruce tried to hide a smile, before he got so sleepy he could hardly stand and Bruce had to half-carry him into the lounge.

Bruce.

Jason stiffens, sitting up quickly, and almost immediately freezes.

Bruce is sitting in one of the old high-backed chairs across from the couch. He's asleep, a blanket covering him – undoubtedly Alfred's work – and it looks like he hadn't even bothered to change, the collar of the Batsuit peeking over the edge of the blanket. The old man had stayed, watched over him while he slept, like he actually cared.

And yet, Jason remembers now. He remembers that he is unavenged, that the Joker still rots in Arkham like a cancer. He remembers that he was replaced, just as he was a replacement, and he has taken lives, so many lives. He's become a monster that preys on monsters in his adoptive father's eyes, unworthy of the cowl and only deserving pity and instructions to go to a therapist in the end. It all mashes up against the memories of the past few hours with confusing and bitter harshness that cuts deep, deeper than any of these latest, small attempts to bridge the gulf between them.

Jason swallows his bitterness, untangles himself from the blankets, and quietly picks up his boots. _Maybe someday I'll forgive you, but not tonight,_ he thinks as he passes by Bruce like a ghost, careful to avoid the creaky floorboards he remembers so well. Sneaking into the hallway, he makes a beeline for the main doors. He'll hit the garage, take one of the motorcycles, wheel it down to the gates and hopefully be gone before anyone even notices it's missing.

"Master Jason, leaving so soon?" Alfred whispers from behind him. He's got Jason's jacket draped over one arm and is carrying a tray with a sandwich, a glass of orange juice and a jump drive on it.

Jason feels all his hopes for a quick escape shatter. "I can't stay here, Alfred."

"I thought as much," the valet says, sounding infinitely older than he appears. "I have taken the liberty of preparing your motorcycle for you. I assume you'll also be requiring your leather jacket?"

 _Oh, Alfred,_ he thinks, managing a small smile. Alfred always seemed to be two steps ahead of everyone, even Bruce, and, better, he always understood what was needed.

"Very good, sir," Alfred says, holding out the jacket.

Jason takes it, running his fingers over the patched holes, and slips it on. His stomach growls and he sighs, looking at the sandwich. "Can I get that to go?"

Alfred's eyes flick back towards the lounge and then to Jason. "If you insist, Master Jason," he says quietly. "Though I insist you take the jump drive as well."

Jason stares at the drive as he picks up the sandwich and then picks it up as well, turning it over in his hand. His name is written on it. "What is it?"

"Plainly put, sir, it's your past," Alfred draws back, starting to turn away. "Whatever is happening to you, I believe you may find the answers you're looking for there."

Jason again looks at the drive, quickly stuffs it in his pocket, and catches the valet in an impromptu one-armed hug. "Thanks, Alfred. You're the best."

Then, he runs and he doesn't look back.


End file.
